The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 16:04:32 -

The Pale Garden

The abbey walls wept. I watched the water trace paths through the mortar. Grey lines on grey stone. Cold. Wet. The air smelled of damp wool and old ink. I stood in the scriptorium. My hands were steady. They had to be. I was the Keeper. The last one. The bell rang. A low, bronze groan. It vibrated in my teeth. I turned. Brother Thomas stood in the doorway. He was young. His face was pale. His...

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